Promises
by FDR Babe
Summary: John has promised not to do anything rash following Sherlock's fall, but it may not be enough to keep death at bay.


John Watson was not a man to flippantly make promises. So when he promised Mycroft, Lestrade, and Molly that he wouldn't do anything rash following Sherlock's death, he meant it. Each of the three had, in their own particular way, extracted that promise from him: Mycroft threatingly, Lestrade matter-of-factly, and Molly pleadingly. Mrs. Hudson gave up trying after breaking down into tears every time she tried speaking with him.

What they didn't realize, however, was that though John had promised to not _actively_ end his life, he had made no such pact to prevent his life finishing by other means.

It turns out that John Watson, solider and doctor, was by far a better actor than he was given credit for. He consumed just enough food and managed enough sleep between the nightmares to keep himself functioning. And if he had shed some weight, had bags under his eyes, and had a general air of despair, his friends put it down to the normal grieving process and looked forward to his gradual recovery.

What they didn't know was that this was the second time John Watson had been pushed to the very edge of his existence. The first time was when he was invalided from the Army and had returned to London a broken, directionless, lonely man with the ever-present temptation of his Browning lingering all too closely. Sherlock had saved him from that temptation and given him a whole new life filled with vibrancy and purpose.

Sherlock's death had once again thrown him into the deepest depression and despondency, and this time he truly saw no way out of it. No salvation. But John had made his promises and he would honor them – at least in the literal sense.

* * *

Winter had once again come to London, as had the one-year anniversary of Sherlock's fall from the roof of St. Bart's. To those observing John Watson, he appeared to have improved with the passing months. Only John knew that his heart and brain were, in fact, slowly regressing into darkness.

To lend credibility to his show of improved health and spirits, John had maintained his job at the clinic, often working extra hours and shifts to fill his time. The cold weather brought the usual heavy influx of patients suffering from colds, the flu, and various ailments. And the patients, in turn, brought about what John viewed as his release.

It began with a bone-deep ache and exhaustion, and progressed to a headache, high fever, and dry cough. The almighty flu. Easily treatable – if you wanted to be treated that is. And John decided he very much did _not _want to be treated. So he made his excuses at work, barricaded himself into 221B, and let nature and his weary body and soul follow the route he longed for – eternal rest and a final reprieve from the pain of life.

As the symptoms of the illness progressed, John decided it was time to make one last pilgrimage to Sherlock's grave before his body became completely incapacitated. So it was on a bitterly cold day that John arrived at the cemetery. Dropping himself to sit against the headstone of the man he considered the closest friend and companion he'd ever had, John proceeded to verbalize all the emotions and feelings he had been unable to until this point. John continued for some time until exhaustion and his illness rendered him unconscious, and he slumped against the frigid marble headstone.

Such was his condition, that he was completely unaware when a familiar black car pulled up near the gravesite. A tall man disembarked, handed his ever-present umbrella to his driver, and approached the insensible man. With a look of sorrow, and perhaps even a little guilt, John was gently lifted by strong arms and transported back to the waiting vehicle.

Once the insensible man was carefully situated in the back seat of the car, a text message was rapidly dispatched. It bore one word – "John" – and yet had a world of meaning to the recipient.

* * *

Slowly the ache in his body replaced the comforting darkness and numbness he was reluctant to be parted from. As consciousness crept through him bit by bit, with it came the awareness of a warmth and weight on his left hand. John painfully struggled to open his eyes, and once the bleariness had cleared he was able to make out that he was in some sort of private hospital facility. Cautiously, he slowly turned his head to see long, slender fingers intertwined with his own. His line of sight moved, following the path of the fingers and hand, only to find that resting on the linked arm, was an achingly familiar head of dark curls.

Desperate to touch the head of hair that taunted him, and judge its reality, John attempted to remove his hand from the one clasping his own. The result was a reflexive tightening of the owner's fingers, followed by the awakening of said owner.

The head of curls lifted rapidly, and for the first time in a year, John was able to look into the clear – and very much alive – eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

Tears filled the eyes of the bedridden man as a hoarse, "Sherlock. . . how?" left his lips.

"Shhh, John. Don't speak," responded Sherlock placing a finger at John's lips. "It was all a magic trick, necessary to save you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade from Moriarty's plans. I dare say we will need to talk this all through. For now, however, be assured that I live. And it appears, my friend, that I must bring you back to life as well. After all, it is widely known what an honorable man you are, and I would not want you to break your promises."

FIN


End file.
